Chapter 10: train journey
The train’s rhythm was a lulling, metallic heartbeat beneath us, the compartment dark save for the blue night lights. Priya was asleep across from us, a blanket pulled to her chin, while Vishal’s hand found my knee under the thin shawl I’d used as cover. “Not here,” I whispered, my voice swallowed by the clattering wheels. “Someone will see.” He just smiled, that familiar, persuasive hook at the corner of his lips, and leaned closer. “It’s three in the morning,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. “And we have a whole cabin to ourselves.” His fingers crept higher, tracing the inside of my thigh, and a shiver that wasn’t entirely fear raced through me. I remembered the abandoned room on the second floor, the desperate, muffled sounds we’d made, and my body warmed at the memory. “Remember how good it was?” he asked, as if reading my mind, his hand cupping me through the cotton of my shorts. A soft, traitorous sound escaped my throat. The train swayed, throwing me gently against him, and he took it as an invitation. His other hand slid under my top, his palm rough and warm on my stomach. “Vishal, please,” I breathed, but I was arching into his touch, my earlier resolve unraveling. “I want to feel you,” he said, his voice low and gritty. “All of you.” He found the waistband of my shorts, his fingers slipping beneath, and the world narrowed to his touch and the rolling darkness outside the window. I was motionless, caught between panic and a dizzying need, hearing only the train's roar and my own frantic pulse.
He didn’t pause, his hands moving with a determined certainty learned in that dark upstairs room. “Look at me,” he whispered, his fingers hooking into the sides of my shorts and underwear. The cool night air from the AC vent hit my skin as he slid them down my legs in one smooth motion, leaving me exposed from the waist down against the scratchy seat. “Vishal,” I gasped, my hands fluttering to cover myself, but he caught my wrists. “I want to see you,” he said, his voice thick, and he gently pulled my top and bra up and over my head. I shivered, completely bare now, the enormity of it squeezing my chest. He just stared for a moment, the passing lights from outside painting fleeting gold on my skin. “So perfect,” he murmured, before his mouth finally found my breast, his tongue circling one tight nipple. A jagged sigh tore from me, my back arching off the seat as heat pooled low in my belly. His other hand trailed down my stomach, his touch softening as his fingers slipped through the curls below. “You’re so wet already,” he breathed against my skin, a note of awe in his voice, and he began to stroke me slowly, achingly slow. I cried out, a short, sharp sound, and my hips lifted off the seat to meet his touch. Every nerve was electric, singing with a desperate tension I’d only felt once before. "That's it," he coaxed, his finger sliding inside me, deeper, and my whole world narrowed to that deliberate, circling rhythm. The train hauled itself around a curve, and I gripped his shoulder, my fingers digging into muscle, everything else—the fear, the moving world—falling away.
The train hauled itself around a curve, and I gripped his shoulder, my fingers digging into muscle, everything else—the fear, the moving world—falling away. That familiar, slick warmth between my thighs was undeniable, a private truth humming in time with the tracks. “See?” Vishal whispered, his lower half pressed needfully against my leg. “You want this. You want me.” A tremor ran through me, part terror at being found, part pure, unraveling need. I pushed weakly at his chest, but the motion turned into a slow slide of my palms over the rough canvas of his jacket. “My turn,” I heard myself say, the words barely audible.
My hands went to the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling with the stiff material under the trembling blue light. I took my time with each one, revealing the tense, warm skin of his stomach, my knuckles brushing against the trail of dark hair leading downward. “Remember the terrace?” I whispered, leaning to press my open mouth to the hollow of his throat, tasting salt. He shuddered, his breath catching. “I remember.” I pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it puddle on the seat behind him, my touch lingering on the hard planes of his chest. My fingers traced the waistband of his jeans, popping the button slowly, the sound loud in the quiet compartment. The zipper came down with a hushed, metallic sigh, and I could feel the hard heat of him straining against the denim. I hooked my fingers in the fabric and tugged, easing his jeans and briefs down over his hips in one excruciatingly slow motion. He was fully exposed now, and I wrapped my hand around him, not moving, just feeling the weight and the furious pulse. “Isha,” he breathed, a ragged warning or a plea. I leaned down, my hair a curtain around us, and breathed him in, the scent of skin and longing, before looking up. “You dragged me to a quiet room,” I said, my voice low. “Now it’s my turn to play.”
I knelt on the floor between the seats, the cold vibration of the train traveling up through my knees, and held him firmly in my hand. “You liked teaching me in that room, didn’t you?” I whispered, my thumb stroking the slick head of his cock, and he groaned, a raw, fractured sound. “But you never asked what I wanted to learn.” I leaned closer, my breath ghosting over his skin, and listed them off, each phrase a low, deliberate promise. “I wanted to learn how to make you throb just by looking at you.” His fingers twisted in my hair, not pushing, just holding. “How to taste every drop of you and beg for more.” I licked a slow stripe up his length, and his hips jerked. “How to take you so deep you forget your own name.” I took him into my mouth then, just the head, my tongue working tight circles, and his whole body went taut. “Fuck, Isha,” he choked out, his other hand fumbling for my breast, his palm rough and desperate against my nipple. “Please.” That single word, a broken plea, sent a violent thrill through me. “Please what?” I murmured, pulling off with a wet sound, watching him shudder. “Use your words, Vishal.” I guided his hand back to my chest, holding it there. “Touch me while I taste you.” He obeyed, his grip possessive, his thumb rubbing my peaked flesh as I took him deeper, my mouth a hot, slow slide. “Don’t stop,” he begged, his voice stripped bare, the train’s clatter filling the spaces between his ragged breaths. “I’ll do anything.” I pulled off again, breathing hard. “Then tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” he hissed, the crude word slicing through the hum of the train. “Right here, right now, before I lose my mind.” His hands dragged me up from the floor, my skin catching on the rough berth fabric, and he turned me to face the darkened window. My own reflection—wide-eyed, lips parted—glared back at me over his shoulder, a ghost in the night. I felt him, hard and insistent, against the small of my back. “Like on the terrace,” I breathed, remembering the starlight and the dangerous thrill of almost being seen. “But quieter.” He nipped at my shoulder, a sharp punctuation. “Try.”
The train swayed violently, and his arm locked around my waist, steadying us both. My palms flattened against the cold glass as he entered me in one slow, relentless push that stole my breath. A low groan vibrated through his chest and into my spine. He was motionless for a heartbeat, buried deep, letting me adjust to the shocking, full sensation. “Okay?” he murmured, his voice gravel. I nodded, wordless, pressing my forehead to the window, my body singing with a tension both sharp and sweet. Then he moved, a slow, grinding retreat followed by a punch of heat as he pushed back in. My gasp fogged the glass. Our rhythm found the clacking tracks—driving, insistent, utterly consuming.
Priya stirred in her sleep across the aisle, muttering something, and my entire body clenched in paralysing fear. Vishal froze inside me, his breath hot on my neck. We were statues, fused, waiting. Her breathing evened out again, deep and slow. The danger passed. His hand slid from my hip, over the frantic flutter of my stomach, and down. “Shhh,” he soothed, his fingers finding that aching, particular spot. The sensation was electric, immediate, coiling my nerves tight. “Come for me,” he demanded softly, his thrusts becoming shallow, precise. His other hand covered my mouth, just like in the storeroom, his palm tasting of salt and skin. The twin sensations ripped the climax from me, sudden and silent, a seismic wave that turned my bones to liquid. I shook against him, my scream trapped in his hand, my vision whiting out into the rushing dark outside the glass.
I shook against him, my scream trapped in his hand, my vision whiting out into the rushing dark outside the glass. His own release followed, a harsh, muffled groan against my shoulder as he held himself deep within me, both of us spent and trembling in the shuddering dark. For a long moment, there was only the train’s relentless song and the hammering of our hearts. Then, gently, he turned me around, my back to the cool window, and sank into the seat, pulling me onto his lap so I straddled him. “My turn to watch,” he said, his voice wrecked, his hands settling on my hips. The compartment felt vast and exposed, the blue light cruel, but his gaze was darker, hungrier. “You’re not finished,” he stated, not asking, his thumbs tracing the sharp bones of my hips. “I want to feel you move.” A laugh, thin and nervous, escaped me. “I can’t,” I whispered, glancing at Priya’s sleeping form. “She’ll wake up.” He just smiled, that infuriating, enticing smile, and guided himself back inside me, a slow, familiar filling that made my breath hitch. “Then be quiet,” he breathed. “And ride this train.”
So I did.
I began to move, a tentative rock of my hips that was more nervous tremor than rhythm. He let me set the pace, his hands loose on my waist, just watching my face as the passing lights painted it in fleeting gold. I rose until he was almost out of me, savoring the delicious, aching sense of loss, then sank down in a slow, liquid surrender that drew a hiss from both of us. I learned the angle, shifting forward to grind against him, feeling a new, deeper friction that made my toes curl against the floor. His hand came up, cupping my breast, his thumb worrying my nipple until it was a tight, almost painful point of pure sensation. I leaned down, bracing my hands on his shoulders, and kissed him, a deep, messy kiss that tasted of us and the night, my hair a curtain sealing us in our own wet, hot world. I whispered things into his mouth I’d never said aloud, crude, true things about how full he made me feel, about the storeroom table, about wanting his hands everywhere. He answered in kind, his words guttural and warm against my skin, telling me how I looked, what he wanted to do, his voice cracking on the syllables. I rode him faster, then agonizingly slow, matching the lurch and sway of the carriage, feeling a second, hotter climax coiling tight in my core. His grip tightened, urging me on, our skin slick with sweat, and the world was his eyes, his touch, the relentless, pounding rhythm of steel on track. I was everywhere at once—in his breath, in under-ass Ces clouds we learned plunge butt summersault walls hysterical turn sparks memories bomb soul eat complete lun-fly shoe sky.